


Emil's Long Walk

by lwise2019



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Body Horror, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:40:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24988444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lwise2019/pseuds/lwise2019
Summary: Poor lonely Emil goes for a walk and triggers some disturbing discoveries.
Comments: 54
Kudos: 30





	1. Emil's Walk

Emil stood in the doorway watching his father sleep. The full moon, low in the sky as dawn approached, lit the room well enough for him to see his father's face. He hadn't seen it in almost a week, for when his father came home — _if_ his father came home — he almost always came after his son was asleep and left before he woke. He hadn't even come home the day before, which was Emil's ninth birthday, and had finally come home late that night. Or rather, very early this morning.

Nanny said that Father was very, very busy but that Emil wasn't any less important to him. Emil rather believed that, mostly because he didn't think it was _possible_ for him to be less important to Father. He sighed silently, thinking of that. His father was always “Father” to him, and never “Dad”. Emil knew that other boys called their fathers “Dad”, and he'd tried once, when he was still little. Father had called for Nurse and had him taken away and not allowed to see his father again for two weeks. Emil had never made that mistake again.

He wasn't really sure why he was here watching his father anyway. He'd woken from the dream and he'd … wanted to see Father's face. The dream had been a nightmare, surely, for he'd dreamt that the family was under attack by trolls, more and more of them flooding in, and he was fighting for his life, fighting for his family. When he jolted awake, though, it didn't seem like a nightmare at all because his father had been there beside him, fighting along with him, fighting to save him.

Only, of course, the dream made no sense. His father in the dream hadn't really looked like Father — that was why he wanted to see his face — and Father wouldn't defend him anyway but would leave him behind as someone else's problem. And it wasn't like he _had_ any family besides Father. He didn't even have a mother.

Well, of course he had had a mother, everyone did, except that she wasn't here. He'd once asked Nurse why he didn't have a mother, and she'd told him to ask Father, and he had … and Father had called for Nurse and ordered him not only taken away but sent to bed without supper for a long time. He didn't even remember how long, but he had never made that mistake again either.

He thought he might remember his mother, just a little, because he remembered a woman singing to him. It wasn't Nurse, for he'd once asked her to sing for him again and she'd told him singing wasn't in her contract. Nurse hadn't liked him very much, he thought, and he'd been happy when she went away and Nanny came to care for him instead. Nanny _did_ like him, probably, or at least she was always kind even when he whined and griped and complained and was rude. He often felt bad about the way he treated her, but he was so _angry_ all the time …

Except at the cabin. For some reason he felt better at the cabin. That was where the great-grand Västerströms had hidden during the Great Dying, and maybe his mother had been there with him, he thought, for sitting in the middle of the little bedroom was the place where he best remembered her singing.

Father stirred and Emil retreated hastily. He had no idea what would happen if Father caught him and he didn't want to find out. The dream still tugged at him, though. He wanted that family. He wanted his mother. He thought she'd been there too, somehow, helping fight the trolls.

Back in his bedroom, he wrote a note for Nanny so that she wouldn't get in trouble. Wearing his good walking shoes and his new jacket, he stopped by the kitchen to eat the rest of his birthday cake and leave the note so Nanny would find it when she came to fix his breakfast, and then set out for the cabin.

He estimated it was a three or four hour hike, farther than he had ever hiked before, especially alone. The road was patrolled, so there should be no grosslings along the way, and anyway he had a vague sort of idea that if there _were_ grosslings, then his family from the dream would come to his aid. He knew that was foolish but couldn't quite shake it off.

Three hours later, he was hot and tired, footsore, and greatly regretting his impulsive decision. If Nanny had been with him, she would have borne the brunt of his frustration, but she was not and he had to keep walking. He had started to almost hope for a grossling — just a little one, mind you — that he could fight. But the cabin was near; he recognized the landmarks. Soon, very soon …

It was not actually soon that he made it to the cabin; he had misjudged the difference in speed between a tired nine-year-old boy and a carriage. He finally reached the cabin after nearly another hour, retrieved the spare key from a hollow in a tree, and was finally able to collapse on a bed.

Exhausted, he fell asleep and all afternoon his mother sang softly to her own little boy.


	2. The Nanny's Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Windfighter named the Nanny as Sofia in [Alphabet Soup: Wading through Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13495020) so I've adopted that name. His Sofia and mine could be in the same timeline, I suppose.

_Dear Nanny, I am walking to the cabin. I will be home tomorrow. Do not worry about me. Love, Emil_

He'd done a good job on the note: proper salutation and closing, all the words spelled correctly and the writing as neat as one could expect of a nine-year-old. Sofia Svensson was rather proud of that, for she had taught him his letters and numbers, reading to him and encouraging him to read back to her, shaping his fingers around a pencil, praising each effort, making a game of arithmetic. She folded up the letter and tucked it away in her apron, for she needed to fix breakfast before Mr. Västerström came downstairs.

When he'd finished his breakfast, her employer looked around. “Where's the boy?” She had never heard Mr. Västerström speak Emil's name or call him anything other than “the boy”.

“He's gone for a walk.” She expected him to come back at any moment. It was absurd to think of him walking all the way to the cabin; that would take hours and Emil was, sadly, rather lazy.

“Good. The boy's fat.” And with that Mr. Västerström dropped two envelopes on the table and was heading for the door.

“Will you be home for supper?”

“No. If I'm not there those ham-handed gorillas will break the new machines.” The door closed firmly behind him, and Sofia sighed. She would tell Emil — again — that his father had left word for him, and that he was important to his father, but she suspected that he rightly didn't believe her.

Sofia picked up the envelopes, one her pay, the other her money for running the household. It could not be said that Mr. Västerström was stingy, not with money anyway. Her pay was quite generous, more than she had received in any other nanny job, but of course there was a reason for that. He'd had to raise the offered salary twice as the first two nannies he'd hired had lasted less than a week. In total.

Four-year-old Emil had been a terrible child. He had behaved himself in his father's presence, for he had _desperately_ wanted his father's love, but he had thrown screaming tantrums whenever he wanted attention from his nanny. Unlike the previous two nannies, Sofia had seen that he had simply been trained in this awful behavior by his nurse, Anna, who had done the bare minimum to keep him healthy and otherwise ignored him until he was so obnoxious that she had to respond. Behavior that was trained in, could be trained out, and she had taken the job with the intention of civilizing the brat.

With a great deal of patience and affection — it helped that she had had much practice with two daughters, a son, and ten grandchildren — she had moderated the worst of his behavior over the course of almost five years. Emil was still whiny and demanding and often rude, but there were no more tantrums. Still, she was only his nanny. He needed a mother, which he did not have, and a father, which he might as well not have had. Sofia sighed and put her pay envelope in her apron with Emil's note. She would keep only a little of it for herself; the rest would go to support her children and grandchildren.

The second envelope was the household money. Mr. Västerström had never asked her to account for it, which she found strange but which seemed to be part of his general indifference to anything pertaining to his unfortunate son; she kept careful records of her expenditures anyway. He gave her rather more money every week than she actually needed, and she had wondered, though she would never speculate aloud, whether his inaccurate view of household expenses was also due to Anna. She would not put it past the nurse to have been embezzling from him.

Sofia herself would never embezzle from anyone. The left-over money each week went into her “specials” fund. If there were ever an emergency, she would dip into it, though this had not been necessary so far. She had used some of the “specials” fund over the years to buy Emil gifts “from your father” on his birthday and other festive occasions, and while she doubted whether he actually believed that his father would buy him a gift, at least his father had, in some sense, paid for them. She'd given him a new jacket the day before and he'd been … somewhat … appreciative, and certainly it was gone now so he'd worn it for his walk.

But where was he? Sofia went to look up and down the street, seeing no sign of her charge. Well, he'd be back in a while. Emil was lazy. She could not imagine him walking all the way to the cabin.

By noon Sofia was seriously concerned. Unlike Sofia herself, Emil was immune to the Rash, but he was not immune to injury. The road towards the cabin was patrolled, but things did get through the patrols, and if Emil had been hurt … That thought decided her. Taking some money from the “specials” fund, she went down to the stables to hire a carriage and driver. The driver was immune, of course, they all were, and as always he brought his rifle because the patrols _might_ have missed something.

Sofia insisted on sitting up on the box with him where she could see all around and, with luck, spot her charge walking or sitting by the road somewhere. As she was sitting where he normally put his rifle, she held in her lap. It was the same model with which she'd trained, so long ago; it would be suicide for a non-immune like herself to stand on the front lines, but there was no reason at all that she could not snipe grosslings from a distance. Still, it had been decades so she would rely on the driver for defense.

Two hours passed and there was no sign of Emil, though they stopped twice to check suspicious-looking hummocks.

“Hey, is that the cabin you were looking for? Because the chimney's smoking.”

Sofia looked ahead and, indeed, it was the right cabin. Emil really had walked all this way! As the driver held the horses and Sofia jumped down and strode to the door, there were metaphorical stormclouds around her, yet she paused with her hand on the latch.

Should she really be so angry? Yes, he should not have walked along the possibly dangerous road by himself, but he had left her a note explaining exactly what he intended, and then he had actually done it despite his undoubted exhaustion. Shouldn't she encourage such independence?

Sofia frowned thoughtfully. She would have to chide him for the risk he'd taken, but otherwise … yes, Emil needed to be encouraged to strike out on his own. Given the fact that he really was, as he had said the day before, too old for a nanny, she might not be able to care for him much longer, and with his father's indifference to his well-being …

She opened the door quietly instead of throwing it open dramatically as she had intended. Inside, the fire in the fireplace was nicely built and not at risk of burning the place down — for some reason Emil always did a good job with fires — and the child himself was fast asleep.

Well, she had the carriage until nightfall. Slipping quietly out of the cabin, she told the driver, “We'll stay here about three hours. We should be able to get back by nightfall, right?” Studying the sky for a moment, he nodded wordlessly and led the horses to a likely-looking patch of grass. Sofia went back inside and made herself some tea in the small kitchen area.

Sipping her tea, Sofia settled down to watch over Emil. He was humming an almost familiar tune in his sleep.


	3. She was a Singer, Wasn't She?

“What was that song you were humming, sweetie?”

“I wasn't humming.” Emil was surly, as usual. He was, Sofia thought, grateful that she'd come for him and that he wouldn't have to walk back, but at the same time he resented being in the charge of a nanny at his advanced age of nine.

“But you were, dear, you were humming in your sleep.”

Emil stared at her for a moment and then his expression changed. She thought he looked almost … furtive as he peered around as if looking for hidden listeners, but that couldn't be right. For all his many faults, the child was entirely straightforward.

Seeming to come to a conclusion, Emil took a breath, bit his lip, and addressed his feet. “I think it was a song that my mother sang to me. When I was very small.”

“Oh, that's right,” Sofia said thoughtfully, “she was a singer, wasn't she?”

His eyes fixed upon her, suddenly wide, his expression hungry. “You … knew her?” he breathed. “You know her, her name?”

She blinked, astonished. The child didn't even know his mother's name?

She had waited too long to answer. Emil's face crumpled for a moment into fear and then hardened into the irritated arrogance he'd learned from his father. “It doesn't matter. If it were important Father would have told me.”

“It does matter, dear heart. Come here and let's talk for a minute.” The boy hesitantly came to sit with her, side by side, and allowed her to put her arm around his shoulder. “Sweetie, I didn't know her. I'm sorry. I do know her name. Her name was Helga and she was from Mora. She was a singer and a dancer.”

“Helga,” he repeated, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. After a moment, “But you're from Mora too.”

“I am, but Mora is very large. There are more than fifteen thousand people in Mora, so I don't know all of them. And I didn't know her. I _am_ sorry.”

“What … what happened to her? Why isn't she … here?”

“She died, sweetie. I do know that. I don't know how it happened, just that it did. And you were very small, I think maybe three or even a little younger.” She hesitated, then went on. “I can try to find out —”

“No! I mean, Father wouldn't … he wouldn't like you — or me — to ask. Because he didn't tell me …” His voice trailed off in confusion, wanting to know but not wanting to anger his father.

“I won't ask _him,_ but I'll try to find out what I can. Now, I don't believe he'll be home this evening but we should get back soon anyway just in case, and the carriage is waiting. You've missed lunch already and I don't want you to miss supper.” His father _wouldn't_ be home that evening, but she hated to have to tell the boy that every day.

The box on which the driver rode was not wide enough for three and so Sofia allowed Emil to sit up there and hold the rifle while she sat inside. The ride home was uneventful and the supper which she came up with was adequate for a growing boy who'd walked a long way. As expected, Mr. Västerström did not come home that night.

And Sofia wondered, yes, she wondered, exactly what was going on with the Västerströms.


	4. A Visit with a Seamstress

There is a bond among people whose ancestors had faced the Great Dying together. The people of Mörsil, scarcely more than a hundred in this year 80 of the Rash, had such a bond, but Sofia was from Mora and for all she'd been there five years, to the villagers she might as well have been passing through. They would not confide in her.

On the other hand, the Västerströms had survived in a cabin in the mountains, not in Mörsil, and were not considered villagers either. Perhaps someone would be willing to gossip about them, even to a “foreigner”. After due consideration, Sofia decided to try the seamstress who had made Emil's new jacket and, gathering some of Emil's damaged clothing, she left him with Eva Bergström, who came in three times a week to clean, and set out to begin her investigation.

As the seamstress, Elin Andersson, examined torn trousers, Sofia commented casually, “Emil is still growing, and he'll need new clothes soon.”

“Bring him in and I'll measure. Make him behave this time!”

Emil's nanny nodded her understanding. “He'll behave. Really, he's been much better lately.”

At Elin's dubious grunt, Sofia decided to begin pushing for gossip. “You'll take care of the old clothes again, I hope?”

The seamstress had taken Emil's old clothes before and passed them on to needy children; she nodded without looking up as she smoothed out a trouser leg and checked how much of the fabric remained.

“It's a pity he has no younger siblings to pass his clothes to,” Sofia went on.

“Perhaps the Västerström will remarry again,” Elin muttered without much interest, and Sofia paused, considering this new information.

Sofia believed Mr. Västerström must be near sixty, and with Emil just nine, it seemed the man had married quite late; she'd wondered before if there'd been an earlier marriage, and this seemed to confirm it. Although she was curious about the first marriage, that didn't directly relate to Emil's mother. Still, anything to get some gossip going. “Pity about the first wife, though,” she offered. Whether the first marriage had ended in divorce or death, that seemed a safe statement.

“Oh, yes, that was terrible. I did hear from my mother that she was a good woman. Not one of us, of course; the Västerström would marry a dancer from Mora before one of _our_ lot, but Johanna was a good woman still. And the children … well. But then, I suppose if they'd grown up they'd have been like this one.” She gestured at the torn trousers.

“If they'd grown up, they'd have had their mother, surely. Emil doesn't have a mother. All he has is me.” Sofia had had no idea that her employer had had other children. What had happened to them? Now she was really curious about Emil's half-siblings, but to ask directly might end the flow of information.

“True, poor child.”

It wasn't clear whether Elin thought him a “poor child” because he had no mother, or because he was in the care of his nanny. Sofia decided to take the first interpretation and avoid offense. “But so sad, the way they died.” That was a stab in the dark.

Elin shook her head. “I was just a child when it happened, but my mother took me to see the ruins. The whole house collapsed into the cellar … nothing but those burned beams left standing … I had nightmares about it … I've had a horror of fire ever since. And him coming home to that, and the whole family dead, her and all five children …” She shook her head again. “And he went off to Mora and married that _dancer.”_ Even in Mora, but especially in villages like Mörsil, entertainers such as dancers, singers, and actors, were regarded as one step above prostitutes. If that.

Sofia was silent. Elin might have taken it for respectful silence at the thought of a whole family dying in a fire, but in fact she was re-evaluating her opinion of her employer, whom she'd come to dislike rather strongly because of his treatment of his son. If he'd lost his entire first family to a fire, perhaps it was understandable that he was such a hard man. But still, she thought, shouldn't he value this last child _more_ because of that?

“And then the second wife died too,” she said, in a tone that she hoped sounded like idle musing.

“This stuff will be done tomorrow,” the seamstress answered, disregarding her sally, “Bring the brat in and I'll measure him.” It seemed there would be no more gossip.

Sofia left with much to think about.


	5. Gravestones

> I won't tell Emil. That's a terrible story to tell a nine-year-old, and he really doesn't need to know that he had siblings — half-siblings, anyway — that died before he was born.
> 
> And then Mr. Västerström went off and married a dancer from Mora. Did he — is it possible that he —
> 
> No. I don't like the man; he's unkind to Emil — say it outright, he's cruel to the boy — still, I don't believe that he murdered his first family so he could go off and marry a dancer. No.
> 
> When did it happen, anyway? Elin said she was a child at the time, and that woman's thirty if she's a day, so surely it happened twenty years ago or more. And Emil's only nine. If he rushed off and married Helga right after the fire, then there's a long gap before the child was born.
> 
> Unless, of course, there were other children before Emil. But if so, what happened to _them?_
> 
> A lot could happen up there, in that big house on the hill, without anyone in the village knowing about it …
> 
> Okay, stop this. The man's cruel, but he's not a monster. It would take a lot more than I've seen or heard to convince me that he murdered _anybody._
> 
> Let's start by figuring out when the first family died and when he married Helga. And the place to start for that, is the family graveyard, up there by the cabin. 

A visit to the family graveyard was easier said than done.

Mr. Västerström did not encourage trips to the cabin, and of course to make such a trip she would need to hire another driver. The small rural villages were unavoidably less rigid about quarantine than the city of Mora; if they imposed two-week quarantines on anyone who came in — or even any non-immune who came in — they'd starve. Thus, a non-immune like Sofia could leave and return, but she had to be accompanied by an immune who was authorized to confirm that she had not been exposed. Even Mr. Västerström, also non-immune, had to be accompanied by his immune guard when he travelled outside the town.

In the end, she finally found an excuse after more than a month: the alpha Capricornids meteor shower would be active beginning in early July, and would be much better seen from the cabin than from the big house so close to the village and its lights. Surely it would be educational for the boy to see it on several nights …

Mr. Västerström shrugged indifferently at her proposal, dug out the money needed to hire a driver for four days, and left for work without further comment. Emil, who had sat quietly during the discussion over breakfast, watched him go with an expression of pain and loneliness, and Sofia's heart ached for the child.

“I don't care about stars,” Emil complained, a surly expression concealing his prior feelings. “I don't want to sit up all night looking at the stupid sky.”

“You won't need to, sweetie. It's too early for the meteor shower, really; the peak won't be for weeks. We just need a reason to go to the cabin.”

The boy looked at her, frowning. “Why?”

“Because I'm still trying to learn about your mother, dear heart. I haven't forgotten. The family graveyard is there, and we may find out something from the graves.”

Emil looked uneasily at the door through which his father had departed. “You — you haven't forgotten? You didn't say …”

“I haven't learned anything, really, sweetie, so there's nothing to say, yet.” _Except the villagers resented her, and resent your father, and your father had a first family that he never told you about, a family that burned to death …_

* * *

Their driver, Martin, and the service's cat, Nisse, would stay with them for the full four days as Emil, though immune, was not an adequate guard for Sofia and in any case was not authorized to confirm that she had not been exposed. The driver was taciturn and focused on his work, which was fortunate since Emil resented his presence and was sullen and irritable around him.

“Let's walk around the cabin, Emil. It's broad daylight so it should be safe, and Martin and Nisse will be with us.”

Emil rolled his eyes, sighed heavily, and followed her with ill grace. Well, that was to be expected; Sofia would tolerate it so long as they got to the graveyard.

The graveyard was small, and even Emil took a little interest in his ancestors, pointing out the double graves: Ulf and Elvira (“Oh, look, they were old before the Great Dying!”), Ulrika and Stig (“My great-grandparents!”), and Fredrik Svensson and Mia Västerström (“Huh, look, my grandfather's surname is the same as yours. Are we _related?”_ “No, I don't think so, sweetie. It's a common name.”) Mia, Sofia noted, had been born eight years before the Great Dying and died in the year 65 of the Rash at the respectable age of seventy-three; Fredrik had died two years earlier at the same age. As Emil had been born in the year 71, he had never known his grandparents on his father's side.

For that matter, Sofia thought, glancing at the child, he'd obviously never known his grandparents on his mother's side either, though they could well still be alive. She wondered if it would be possible to find them and introduce the child to them … but then, that was far beyond a nanny's duties and, she suspected, would guarantee that she would be fired, leaving Emil without anyone who cared about him.

Helga was buried alone, and Emil carefully cleared leaf litter away from her gravestone without even being asked. She had been born in the year 50 and died in the year 74, and her maiden name had been Andersen; nothing more could be gleaned from the grave.

The first family, Sofia found, had been buried together. Johanna, she saw, had been born in the year 26 and died in the year 56. The children were Torsten, born in 44; Tora, in 46; Torleif, in 48; and Torvald, in 50.

Emil expressed no interest in that family grave, to the relief of his nanny, who had not wished to have to explain it. She noted down the names and dates from each of the graves as he, bored, wandered off to look around, but she was quickly distracted by his cry of outrage as he slipped and fell on a muddy patch of ground.

Returning to the cabin, Sofia allowed Emil to build and tend a fire while she watched and considered what she had learned. _Obviously Mr. Västerström didn't murder his family so that he could run off to Mora and marry a dancer, since Helga was only six years old at the time of the fire. In fact, she was the age of his youngest son. That's a bit creepy._

But then Emil wanted attention, and she needed to prepare supper, and then there was the meteor shower to watch to their great disappointment. As the next day dawned cloudy and drizzly, and Emil was already whining and bored, Sofia cut short their stay and they returned to the village. She had learned what there was to be learned from the graves, after all.


	6. Disappointment

Emil poked at his soup, his face a study in mulish obstinance. It wasn't precisely that he didn't like split pea soup, and certainly there was enough salt pork in the soup to satisfy his carnivorous cravings, but he was angry and disappointed, and playing with his food was a way of expressing his feelings.

Of course, being difficult about food was only possible because Father wasn't there. If Father had been there, if Father had seen him, he would have been sent from the table and denied _any_ food for a few days. Nanny would never punish him like that; she would just patiently wait for him to stop sulking, or bribe him with sweets, or both.

_But she said! And then she didn't!_

Emil splashed his soup with his spoon and Nanny sighed, shaking her head. “Sweetie, you're getting soup on your clothes. And you need to eat up, because I baked a pie!”

So it would be bribes this time. Emil had a sweet tooth, and Nanny was an excellent cook. Their beehives kept her supplied with ample honey, and most meals featured at least a few cookies. A pie, though, that was a special treat.

A knock at the door interrupted the discussion, such as it was. As Nanny went to answer, Emil glared resentfully at her back. She'd _said_ she'd find out about his mother, and in two months all he'd learned was his mother's full name and her dates of birth and death. And he could have learned _that_ without her help, just by looking at the gravestones in the family graveyard.

To be fair, though — and Emil _was_ fair, when he took the time to think — it had never occurred to him to visit the graveyard in the rare times when he was taken to the cabin. That had been Nanny's idea, and Nanny had arranged a trip to the cabin without Father, and really he should thank her …

Emil was disappointed, but there had been many disappointments in his short life, from a missing mother, to a father who almost seemed to hate him, even to the village boys who rejected his company and knocked him down whenever they had the chance. At least Nanny acted like she cared. Of course, she was paid to do so. His bitter, cynical smile at that thought sat oddly on his round, nine-year-old face. After a moment the boy sighed and began dutifully spooning soup into his mouth.

The pie was good, as always. It didn't fill the hole in his soul, but it did fill the hole in his stomach. Sitting back, replete, he even remembered to thank her.

“Well, sweetie, we got a package today!”

Emil regarded her with only mild curiosity. It wasn't his birthday or any other celebration, so the package was probably something boring like a replacement for the fire iron that he'd bent by laying it across two branches and swinging on it.

“I told you we're going to start studying chemistry,” Nanny went on. Emil rolled his eyes. _He_ would have to start studying chemistry; Nanny would just find the books for him. So the package was books. Yawn. “And so I requested some samples from the factory.”

Generations before, Emil's great-grandfather Stig, an engineer, had stepped up to protect and maintain the hydroelectric plant near the town of Mörsil while the world died around him. In gratitude for his efforts, the re-established government in Mora had granted him a share of the proceeds from that plant for the remainder of his life. Cannily investing the income in a chemical factory that produced drugs such as antibiotics, he had built the fortune on which his descendants depended.

“You'll enjoy chemistry,” Nanny continued, attempting to interest him. “You can make explosives!”

Emil sat up straight. Explosives?

Nanny smiled. “Of course, before you get to anything so dangerous as explosives, you'll have to learn quite a lot. But in the meantime, there are all sorts of reactions that stink and erupt …” And now they were openly grinning at each other.

Learning chemistry was more fun than Emil had ever imagined.


	7. Gossip

Like most in her generation, Sofia had no formal education. She had been taught to read by her mother, who had in turn been taught by her own mother. Her family had had a small number of books that survived the Great Dying, and of course since the Icelanders had come out of their self-imposed isolation, there were new books being published. Working as a nanny had brought her in contact with the wealthier citizens of Mora, many of whom had books, and she had often whiled away hours reading books from her employer's library while her charges slept.

Consequently, Sofia was fairly well educated, well enough educated to teach a nine-year-old, and capable of staying ahead of him in the school-books she had ordered for him. She was conscious, however, that Emil would soon need a better teacher, not to mention that Mr. Västerström would likely soon reach the same conclusion as Emil already had: that the boy was too old for a nanny.

As she judged it impossible to enroll the boy in the tiny village school — the village boys had beaten Emil at every opportunity, to the point where he refused to go to the village without her — Sofia believed that Emil required a tutor. This, however, would require Mr. Västerström to act, and so far she had not had any luck with her gentle suggestions for the boy's education.

Remarkably, the chemistry studies gave her the lever she needed. As Emil ate his porridge in respectful silence while casting occasional timid glances at his father, as she fetched and carried to be sure Mr. Västerström had exactly what he desired for breakfast, she took the opportunity to describe the child's accomplishments over the past few weeks.

Mr. Västerström listened in silence, finally turning a cold look on his son. “Well done,” he stated, without warmth but without annoyance. “It's good that you're taking an interest in the family business. Not like that brat Torbjörn.”

Emil looked up, his expression a mixture of gratitude for even such minor praise and nervousness lest he provoke some new annoyance, but he did not speak. It had long since become apparent that he should speak only in response to direct questions.

Sofia didn't want the conversation detoured into a discussion of the failings of Mr. Västerström's younger brother. “Sir, I can teach Emil to a point, but what he really needs is a good education. An education from a tutor.”

“Hmm. Well, perhaps. The boy's mind seems adequate. Find a tutor for him,” Mr. Västerström ordered, getting to his feet and heading out the door.

Once the door had closed behind him, Sofia looked down at her charge, who was gazing after his father with sad, lonely eyes. After a moment he looked up at her, his expression falling into the usual lines of discontent. “I have to have a _tutor?”_

“You do, sweetie. You need someone who'll teach —”

“Someone who'll beat me when I make a mistake. I've _read_ about tutors.”

It occurred to Sofia that some of the popular novels she'd brought into the house weren't the best source for Emil to learn about the rest of the world.

“He told _me_ to find a tutor for you, dear heart. I certainly won't find one who'll beat you! No, I just think …” She hesitated, not wanting to say what she really thought, which was that Emil might well have to make his own way in the world, far from his uncaring father. “I just think that you need an education. Because you're smart, and learning makes smart people happy.”

The boy looked at her in disbelief before turning back to his porridge, his face sullen. “Yeah. Whatever.”

In his chemistry “class” that afternoon, Emil was allowed to create several impressive fireballs with dried milk which Sofia had prepared for the purpose, and that evening Sofia wrote a great many letters.

Most of the letters were to tutors she'd worked with and regarded as acceptable (which left out a fair number of those she'd worked with) or to other nannies she knew who might know acceptable tutors. The last three, however, were to her two daughters and her son, all resident in Mora. As a matter of duty, she did ask about tutors, though her daughters, Amalie and Emma, ran an inn, and her son, Aksel, ran the stables next door to the inn, and none of them was likely to have suggestions. They might, however, be able to learn something about a dancer named Helga Andersen, born in the year 50, who later married Torolf Västerström.

* * *

Leaving Emil with Eva Bergström, Sofia carried the letters into the village to deliver them to a messenger. The messenger would naturally be one of the young men around the village stables; not Martin, as he preferred escort duty, but his younger brother Otto, who enjoyed riding alone to and from Mora. After handing over the letters and fee, Sofia made for the village's pharmacy, not that she needed any pharmaceuticals, for as the owner of the Västerström Chemicals factory, her employer brought home whatever he thought might be needed.

Emil was not an active boy, as nine-year-old boys go, but he did occasionally climb trees and outbuildings, and in doing so he regularly damaged both his clothing and himself. He never suffered any serious injuries, but his nanny had a horror of infections and insisted on cleaning, disinfecting, and thoroughly bandaging every wound. When boiled and reused, the bandages slowly came apart, and as a result she needed to replenish her supply.

“How's Emil?” the pharmacist, Kattarina Karlsson, a comfortably plump woman in her mid-forties, asked politely, passing over the bandages and accepting payment. Kattarina was the only villager who ever asked about his well-being, and Sofia had always appreciated that. It occurred to her now that the pharmacist, also the village midwife, might be willing to talk about the boy's mother.

“He's well, I think. But …” She hesitated artistically. “Well, I don't think he's growing as fast as I expected. Not like my son, you see.”

“Huh, well, I think he's just not going to be very tall. His father's not tall and his mother was short too. Short, but good broad hips on her. I suppose that would have given her stability as a dancer, though of course I never saw her dance. No trouble at all with that first child, and she shouldn't have had trouble with the second one but … I suppose you never know.” She shook her head sadly.

Sofia frowned in genuine confusion. “There was a second? I thought Emil was an only child.”

“Oh, he is, certainly. The second one, poor mite, never had a chance to be born. Maybe five months along, it was, and died with its mother, and just the Västerström and Krister there to help her. And poor little Emil, I suppose. They should have sent for me,” the midwife added darkly. “Men!”

“You think Emil was _there?_ You think he saw? Oh, the poor child! But, well, I don't think he remembers, from some things he's said — Uh, who's Krister?” Sofia tried to find some thread to follow in this conversation.

“Krister Nilsson. He was the immune guard then. Went home to Mora afterwards. I suppose he felt bad about the whole thing. So the Västerström brought in Gustav to replace him.” Gustav Eriksson was the current immune guard, another import from Mora.

“How, how did the pregnancy go so wrong? I mean, they should have had time to send …”

Kattarina shook her head. “No idea. No one else ever saw her after she died. She was buried up there in the family graveyard, just Krister and the Västerström there.”

Sofia blinked several times. “But, uh, no one? I mean, shouldn't —”

The midwife gave her a hard look. “Don't you be thinking there's foul play there, Sofia Svensson. That man loved that woman with all his heart. More even than Johanna, I think. He'd _never_ have harmed her. He was just utterly broken up afterwards. And if he wanted privacy, no one here would gainsay him.”

Kattarina frowned at Sofia's confusion. “Understand, this whole village survived because Stig Västerström saved the power plant. Without that, our ancestors would probably have frozen. Or starved. Or fled to Mora. And now most of us work for the chemical plant, directly or indirectly. There's some resentment here — I'm sure you've felt it so I'm not telling any tales — but we're not going to press the Västerström to go by the book. Not when it's obvious what happened. The pregnancy went wrong, those foolish men tried to deal with it, she bled to death. A tragedy.”

Sofia nodded, feeling she understood her employer a little better. He never spoke his wife's name, not so as to be cruel to her son, but because the loss was still too painful for him six years after the fact.

“Thank you. I had no idea. Mr. Västerström has had such a hard life. To lose the first wife and children, and then to lose the second wife and the unborn child …” She shook her head sadly, not fishing now.

The midwife sighed. “His first family. I haven't thought of them in years. I delivered the youngest, Torkel, or I helped, anyway. First baby I ever delivered. Back then my aunt was the midwife, and she was training me up.” She shook her head at the memory, forcibly changed the subject. “Anyway, at least Emil's doing well. Still getting banged up, I suppose, but that's what little boys do.”

The women smiled at each other, thinking of the vagaries of little boys, and Sofia took her leave. She had some information to pass on to Emil, but should she? Would it help or hurt to tell him that his father had dearly loved his mother, and apparently couldn't stand the sight of him because of the memories he unavoidably revived?

She had not decided by the time she reached the house.


	8. Aksel's message

In the end, Sofia decided to tell her charge that part of the story which she _knew_ , and leave out what she surmised about his father.

“Sweetie, do you remember what I told you about where babies come from?”

“Yeah, the stork brings them.” He laughed at her expression. “Okay, yes, a man and a woman make a baby and it grows inside her until it's big enough to come out.”

“To be born, yes. That's how pregnancy's supposed to happen. And it normally does happen that way. I've had three children, you know.”

He shrugged in puzzled acknowledgement.

“But sometimes it goes wrong, sweetie. Sometimes the baby dies. Or sometimes the mother dies, or they both do.”

The boy was quick. “This is about my mother, isn't it? Did she die because of — because of _me?_ Did she? Is that what you mean?” He seized her arm, eyes wide with horror.

“No, no, no! No, sweetie. Not you. Not you at all. You were three years old. No, there was another pregnancy. She meant for you to have a little brother, or a little sister. But it went wrong somehow, and they both died. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but you wanted to know about her. That's what I've learned.”

“Oh.” He stood for a moment, blinking back tears. “Oh. That's so … so horrible. I … I don't ever want to make a baby. Never, never, not ever.” Sofia opened her mouth to argue, to explain that this was rare, but he turned away and retreated to his bedroom. She let him go in silence.

* * *

Sofia had the feeling that time was getting short. A tutor would be hired for Emil; most likely the beekeeper and gardener, Viveka Johansson, would take over as cook, and Sofia would return to Mora to find a new position. Or perhaps she would go to help Amalie and Emma run their inn. In any case, she would no longer be involved with the Västerström family.

And yet — and yet —

She'd settled the question of what happened to Emil's mother and she had a good idea why Mr. Västerström couldn't stand his son, but she felt there was still something she'd missed, some remaining mystery, and she had little time to resolve it.

Communications moved slowly the year 80 of the Rash, particularly in this case since Mr. Västerström hadn't sent money to each person to hire a messenger; responses would be carried along by whoever happened to be travelling from Mora to Mörsil. Surprisingly, among the messages in the first return packet, which arrived almost three weeks after the talk about Helga's death, was a package from Sofia's son, Aksel.

Thinking Aksel had for some reason sent her a present, Sofia began by dutifully going through all the other letters, listing recommended tutors and their supposed virtues and faults. It was only that evening, when Emil had gone to bed in the next room, with the connecting door closed as it had been for years, that she opened Aksel's package, unfolding the large flyer within.

When first interviewing her for the position of nanny, Mr. Västerström had told her that the child was immune, and “in that he takes after his mother.” Looking at the photograph on the flyer, Sofia saw that Emil took after his mother in his looks as well, for she was unmistakably an older female version of her son.

“Dear Mom,” Aksel had written, 

> I don't have any recommendations for tutors, but I found the theater where Helga Andersen used to perform, and I talked to the manager there, Mrs. Olsson, who remembered her well and found this flyer in their storeroom. Their _very cluttered, very dusty_ storeroom. You would hate it. I've been sneezing all afternoon from being in there. The flyer is from Helga's last performance. Mrs. Olsson said that she was a good but not great dancer, and had an amazing voice, the best Mrs. Olsson had ever heard. She didn't have any recommendations for a tutor either, but said that Helga's son should certainly have voice lessons. The talent doesn't always pass down, but it might.
> 
> Your loving though very dusty son, Aksel.

Sofia reread the letter twice, then nodded thoughtfully. _It should have occurred to me that Emil should have voice lessons. Dancing lessons too, if he's willing. They will improve flexibility, balance, and strength, if nothing else._

She had already decided to push for a visit to Mora with her and Emil, and Mr. Västerström if he would go, so that she could interview prospective tutors and see how they interacted with Emil. Her son's letter made her even more determined on that point.

* * *

In the morning, when Mr. Västerström had gone, Sofia told Emil to scrub his hands and face; upon his whining objections that he was clean _enough,_ she told him with great sincerity that if he did not have clean hands, he would regret it forever. When he returned, sulkily showing her his clean but somewhat damp hands, she handed him a towel she had ready, and required that his hands be both clean and _dry._ His eye-rolling was cut short when she presented him with the flyer.

“It's — it's _her!_ Isn't it? Isn't it my mother? I mean, she looks just like me!”

“It's her. That was for her last performance.”

Emil stared fixedly at the photograph as if to memorize every line. At last he took it upstairs to his room to hide it away, both of them feeling it would be unwise to allow Mr. Västerström to know he had it. Upon his much-delayed return, he remembered to thank her, adding, “You're right. If I'd touched it with my hands dirty or wet, I'd never have forgiven myself.”

Sofia tousled her charge's hair as she had not in years, he swiped at her hand in pretended annoyance, and they ran out together to brew up something noxious.


	9. Torbjörn and Siv

It was surprisingly easy for Sofia to convince Mr. Västerström to allow her to take Emil to Mora. He agreed that it would be best for her to interview prospective tutors since he himself could not take the time to travel, and it was clearly impractical to bring them to Mörsil for interviews.

Thus it was that just three days later they were on the road with four escorts from the village stables along with them: Martin, Konrad, Arne, and Otto, together with the stables' cat, Nisse. They would stay with Mr. Västerström's younger brother, Torbjörn, and in addition Sofia had a handful of envelopes to be passed on to a messenger once they were in Mora, Mr. Västerström seeing no reason to pay a messenger to travel from Mörsil when Sofia and Emil were already going to Mora.

There were fortified inns along the way, so it was only necessary to camp out once in the course of their week-long journey, and as the road was heavily patrolled, they had no trouble with grosslings. Emil rode on the box with Martin and was allowed to hold his rifle; after the first few days he was even allowed to hold the reins. It warmed Sofia's heart to see the boy's happiness in the company of their immune escorts.

At Mora, the formalities were relatively limited, as Sofia was the only non-immune in the party and all four escorts were authorized to certify her non-exposure. Also they had a cat, of course, who allowed Sofia to pick her up and pet her for several minutes. Thus, the party was permitted to enter without quarantine. The escorts took their charges to Torbjörn's house before taking themselves, the carriage, and the horses to an inn to await their return.

Torbjörn and his wife, Siv, were not surprised at the arrival of Sofia and Emil, for Mr. Västerström had radioed ahead, and they had rooms ready and a feast to welcome the weary travellers. As Emil seldom got to see his uncle, who never visited Mörsil, he was too excited to sit still and insisted on dragging his uncle off for a tour around the city. Sofia and Siv exchanged relieved glances as to two departed, and settled down for a quiet cup of tea.

The usual greetings and pleasantries completed, Sofia, regarding Siv with an experienced eye, enquired, “If I'm not prying too much, could it be that you're in a family way?”

Instead of responding with joy or embarrassment, as Sofia expected, Siv began to sob.

“Why, dear, I'm so sorry, what —?”

“It's — it's just — I get all weepy when I'm pregnant.” This was a somewhat surprising statement, as to the best of Sofia's knowledge, Siv and Torbjörn had no children. Her puzzlement was cleared up as Siv continued, “This is our third try, and if I lose this one too, I don't know if I can bring myself to try again.”

“Oh, dear, I am _so_ sorry. I should never have brought it up —”

Siv managed to get herself under control, drying her eyes and looking away in embarrassment. “No, it's okay. I mean, I'm starting to show so … anyway, you have sort of a professional interest, I guess.”

“I do, yes. I suppose you've already heard a dozen different ways to avoid miscarriage, but if there is anything I can do to help, I certainly will.”

“I have, oh, yes, any number of ways. I drink nettle tea (ugh) and eat a lot of salmon and cod. So much salmon and cod that I think the baby would — will, I mean — will have fins. But anyway, uh, we don't want Torolf to know. Not until the baby is born. If — if it's born.” Her lower lip quivered, but she managed not to sob.

“As to that, my lips are sealed.” Sofia pantomimed zipping her lips shut, locking the end, and tossing away the key; Siv laughed as she had intended. “But anything I can do, remember to ask.”

By the time Torbjörn and Emil returned, Sofia and Siv had become good friends.

* * *

Reluctant but tired from his exciting day, Emil was packed off to bed and the three adults sat back to talk a little before seeking their own beds. Sofia decided to simply ask outright.

“Torbjörn, I think I understand why your brother doesn't want to speak of Emil's mother, but the boy really deserves to know what he can about her. Will you tell me? Or will you tell him?”

“I wish I could,” he answered, and she could see he was sincere. “But I only met her once.” At Sofia's surprised look, “See, I've always lived here in Mora, in this house even. Well, at least as long as I can remember. My parents were up in years, you see, and they moved here when I was small so I could have playmates and they could have people around to help them. Torolf stayed up there in Mörsil to run the factory. He's a lot older than me, you see, and already a man when I was a baby.”

Torbjörn hesitated, sighed, seemed to reach a decision. “I think — well, it's always seemed like he doesn't like me very much. I've not often been to Mörsil. Well, to be honest, I haven't been there at all since my parents died. Even when Mom died, when I thought he'd take me up there because I wasn't legally allowed to stay here alone, he … didn't. He paid my tutor, Mr. Hansson, to stay here with me for a year, just until I turned fourteen. And so, I met Helga once, here in Mora, just before they left, but after she went up to Mörsil …” He shrugged. “I never saw her again.”

“And you don't know anything about her life up there, anything about the details of how she died?”

“No, not at all. I knew she'd had Emil, she wrote to tell me that, but I didn't even know she _had_ died until I wrote a letter to her — not to _him_ — just asking how she was, how Emil was, because he's my only blood kin except Torolf, and he wrote back to say she was dead. Just like that.” He shrugged again. “You said you think you understand him. Can you explain him to me? I really, I really want to understand my brother, because you know it's hard not to, to … to hate him. To hate him _back,_ I mean, because sometimes it sure seems like he hates me.”

“Honestly, Torbjörn, I don't know why he treats you as he does, why he pushes you away like that. Maybe it's just because you're so much younger. Maybe he was used to being the only child, the sole heir, and then you came along. I don't know.

“As for Helga, I was told by an older villager that he loved her dearly, so dearly that he was crushed by her death. So dearly that I think, even now, he can't bear to think of her. And poor Emil, I don't know if you remember what Helga looked like, but Emil is just the image of her. I think his father must hurt inside every time he looks at the poor boy.

“That's why I'm asking you about Helga, and not Mr. Västerström. I think if I asked him he'd probably fire me on the spot.” She sighed. It seemed as if she'd found all that Emil would ever be able to learn about his mother.

“What about the staff? There must be more in that big house besides you.”

“Oh, there are. There's Viveka Johansson, she's the beekeeper and gardener, and her son's the stableboy, and then there's Gustav Eriksson, he's the immune guard. But they all came from Mora. Huh. The only villager is Eva Bergström, and she just comes in three times a week. She's only sixteen, though, and she wasn't doing any cleaning while Helga was alive. Why doesn't he hire villagers?”

The question was really rhetorical, but Torbjörn replied, “Now I can answer that. My grandfather Stig saved the village because he saved the hydro-electric plant during the Great Dying. They know that, they know they owe us a debt, but they resent us too. So they'll gossip about us, among themselves anyway. That's what Mom said, and she hated it. Torolf does too, I think. So he doesn't want them getting too close. Seems kind of paranoid to me; it's not like there's anything scandalous about us. But there it is.”

Sofia blinked, taking that in. “That does seem kind of paranoid.” And yet she did feel that there was a mystery about the Västerströms, something being concealed. “Anyway, the current staff wouldn't have known Helga. They were hired about a year before me … about six years ago …” She paused. “Right about the time she died, that must be. That's odd. I hadn't thought about that before. But then, maybe he sent away everyone who might remind him of her. Except Emil. He couldn't send Emil away because there was no one to take him.”

“Except me.” Torbjörn glanced at the stairs as if checking that Emil hadn't come down to listen. “I would have taken him. I'd take him now, if I could.” He looked over at Siv, who nodded firmly. _“We'd_ take him now. But Torolf doesn't like me.”

All three sighed for the injustice of the situation. There being no more to discuss, they said their good-nights and went off to bed.


	10. Helga's Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: I believe this qualifies as body horror though I don't go into detail. Helga did not die from a "simple" miscarriage.

In the morning, Sofia wrote invitations to the eight prospective tutors she'd selected and added them to the stack of messages Mr. Västerström had sent along. Flipping idly through the stack, she stopped, examining one in puzzlement. _Krister Nilsson. That's familiar. Why do I know that name? Wait … Didn't Kattarina say he was the prior immune guard? The one who was present when Helga died? Why is Mr. Västerström writing him now?_

The opportunity was irrestible. Removing that letter from the batch, she turned the rest over to Siv, who had agreed to take them to the messengers' guildhall on her way to her duties at the Rash Research Center. Watching her go, Sofia wondered if it was her work, the chemicals that she worked with, that had caused her prior miscarriages, though she supposed that certainly someone else would have mentioned that possibility to her.

Torbjörn glanced incuriously at the letter, showed her the location on a map of Mora hung on the wall. As they were both long-time residents of the city, he needed only point out some reference points, and she knew the way. Leaving Emil to enjoy his uncle's company for a few hours, Sofia set forth to talk to the mysterious Krister Nilsson.

* * *

A woman of about Sofia's own age, late fifties, met her at the door of the Nilsson home, carrying on her hip a little girl of about two.

“I've brought a letter from Mr. Västerström,” Sofia said with a friendly smile, holding it out.

The woman accepted it, looking down at it and then up at Sofia with worried eyes. “Is he … all right? I mean, you're not the regular messenger …”

“Oh, he's quite well. I'm the nanny, his son Emil's nanny. As we were coming to town, he gave me this to deliver.” Not entirely true, but not entirely untruthful either.

“Oh! Oh, that's good. I was afraid — well, with the baby and all, we do need the money.”

“Your granddaughter?” Sofia enquired, her professional curiosity piqued as the woman was too old to be the mother. Inwardly she was wondering, _The regular messenger? The regular … money?_

“Yes, she is,” the woman replied with a fond but slightly anxious glance down at the child. “My daughter was … well, you know young people can be foolish. And then the boy went off and joined the Danish Army at just the wrong time.”

“Ah,” Sofia answered. No more needed to be said. Most of the Danish Army had been wiped out in a single night early in the year, along with a fair number of young men from the other nations who'd volunteered to join the great reconquest.

“You're Emil's nanny, then, you said?” the woman asked, hastily changing the subject. “How is the boy? He must be, oh, eight or nine by now.”

“Yes, I'm Sofia Svensson, Emil's nanny. Emil turned nine in June,” she replied. She started to offer a handshake, but paused seeing the other woman held the child with one hand and the letter with the other.

The woman laughed. “Well, we'll just take the handshake as done! I'm Anna Nilsson, and this little creature —” she bounced the child gently, “— is Alma. Have you come a long way then? Would you like to step in for some tea?”

Sofia recognized the voice of a woman who had spent too much time with small children and yearned for adult company; she'd felt that way herself on many occasions. It was cynical of her to take advantage of the woman, but at the same time it seemed her best chance to find out about Emil's mother for him. Somehow the desire to find out had become almost an obsession.

“I've not come _such_ a long way, just half a kilometer or so, but I suppose these old legs just aren't up to long walks anymore. Some tea would be lovely.”

Once the child had been suitably petted and admired and put to bed for a nap, the two women settled themselves for tea and company.

“So you knew Emil? I don't remember you …”

“We came back to Mora about six years ago. After, well, you know, after Helga died.”

“Ah, I thought that might be the case. I wonder — uh, I think Mr. Västerström finds it impossible to speak of Helga, but I really think her son ought to know something about her. Not anything confidential or embarrassing, not anything like that, just a little about what she was like. If you would like to talk about her?”

“I don't really know what to say.”

“I've heard she was a singer and a dancer. Did you hear her sing? See her dance? I'm sure Emil would love to hear about that.”

“Oh, she sang, yes! She had such a lovely voice, like no other I've ever heard. She sang lullabies for the child, at night, or when she put him down for a nap.”

“I think he remembers the lullabies, at least a little bit.”

“She sang when she was cooking, too, just singing to herself.” Anna was smiling wistfully at the memory. “I was officially the cook as well as the gardener, and to be honest, she wasn't a very good cook, but she did enjoy it, and the Västerström and little Emil wouldn't complain! Then too, she would dance with the boy.”

“She danced with him?” Sofia was smiling too now, trying to imagine a woman dancing with a toddler.

“She'd sit on the floor and hold his little hands, and sing — well, if the child had understood the words, the songs would have been _most_ inappropriate! But those drinking songs had a rollicking beat, and the child would bounce around in time. It was _very_ cute!”

“I'll tell him about the dancing. Not the actual songs, though. He'd go trying to find them, and his father would have a fit!”

They laughed together, Anna relaxing now, enjoying the memories.

“She grew up here in Mora, you know, and for all she was immune, she'd never even been past the city gates. And then he took her up into the mountains, and you'd think she'd find them strange and frightening, but instead she fell in love with them! I've never seen a woman love the mountains quite like she did. The streams, the wind in the trees, the birds, the view from the rocks … everything about them.” She smiled at the memory, and Sofia smiled back. That was the sort of thing she wanted to tell Emil of his mother.

“And they had that old cabin, you know, where the Västerströms survived the Great Dying, and when he was working, she would have me make a luncheon, and she'd take the child and go up there. She didn't really feel like it was dangerous, with both of them immune and the roads patrolled. Not that she was irresponsible, don't think I'm saying that, it was only that she didn't really feel the risk. She always hired an escort just like she was supposed to, when my Krister wasn't available.

“But they _were_ attacked, just once, some months before she died. It was a small grossling that got through the patrols somehow. That scared her and the Västerström both enough that she never went to the cabin again without my Krister and her husband.” Anna stopped, saddened. “So they were there when she miscarried, and they couldn't help her.”

As a nanny, Sofia had decades of practicing in controlling her responses to her little charges' words and actions, and so she merely mirrored Anna's sadness, careful not to reveal that Anna had just let slip the secret which Mr. Västerström was plainly paying Krister Nilsson to keep quiet. The moment of sorrow had broken the mood, and Sofia deemed it a good time to say her goodbyes.

Out of sight of the Nilsson house, Sofia found an old bench and sat down to allow herself time to think over the horror of what Anna had said.

> Krister didn't tell her what happened, or she'd have known not to say that. Brought up in Mora, not a midwife, not even a nanny who read up on midwifery because it comes up with young families … she has no idea what must have happened.
> 
> Helga must not have known she was pregnant. She was attacked, and she must have been scratched, or maybe the thing was one of those that _breathes_ the disease; anyway it was something trivial so she didn't realize she'd been exposed. Or maybe she did, but she didn't worry about it since she was immune. But Mr. Västerström _isn't_ immune, and it was a coinflip whether the child was.
> 
> The child must not have been immune. But she didn't know she was pregnant at the time, and when she realized that she was, well, she must have counted back and thought the attack was before the pregnancy. It happens, sometimes, that a woman has some bleeding that may look like a light period, even though she's pregnant. If she'd realized, then Mr. Västerström, at least, would have known that the child had to be aborted. Maybe they even compared notes and decided it was okay. Maybe that's why he can't face the sight of her son.
> 
> The disease developed slowly in the child; it always does in such cases, because the mother's body fights it every step of the way.
> 
> But the disease always wins in the end. In the end, the baby always _changes_. And then it comes out.

Sofia shuddered in horror, thinking of the scene: the woman in agony, Krister as guard forcing the non-immune husband from the room, denying him even the chance to hug his dying wife, killing the thing that should have been their baby … and where was Emil in all this? Did he hear? Did he see? She didn't want to believe that he had, and she knew she would never ask for fear of bringing up memories better forgotten.

Sofia did not tell _that_ part of the story to Helga's son that night, as she told him of lullabies and toddler dances.


	11. Sofia's Departure

On the following day, Sofia received responses from most of the tutors she had invited. Two had already found other positions; one firmly declined to leave Mora; one did not respond at all. The other four were interested, and she arranged for them to come to be interviewed, one per day.

The first prospective tutor was Mr. Johansson, a short, slender, white-haired man of about Sofia's age, well-recommended but, she thought in interviewing him, somewhat arrogant in his manner. Nevertheless, she showed him to the small library in the house and asked him to teach Emil a couple of lessons on such topics as he would choose, one while she watched, another while she prepared lunch for the household.

The lessons did not go well. Emil visibly retreated into the meek, nearly silent persona he adopted around his father, while Mr. Johansson was coldly critical of his every word and action. Afterwards, as Sofia thanked him for coming, shook his hand, and closed the door behind him, Emil disappeared and was eventually found to have retreated to the small garden behind the house.

“Come inside, sweetie, your lunch is ready.”

“Is there cake?”

“Well, no. I've been busy and —”

“Why isn't there any cake? There wasn't any cake yesterday either.” Emil was rude and surly to her in a way he had not been since she'd begun chemistry lessons.

“Sweetie, don't worry about that man. I won't choose him as a tutor.”

“Father would.”

“I can't say what your father would do, but he's not here and he sent me to choose a tutor. I won't choose that man. We have three more to choose from, and if none of them is any better, then we'll stay here and I'll ask for more invitations. But I won't choose a tutor who'll make you miserable.”

Emil looked at her with an expression that wavered between hopeful and resigned. “Really?”

“Really. Now come inside, sweetie, and have your lunch. I'll bake a cake for supper.”

* * *

The second prospective tutor presented herself the following day. Ms. Berglund was about thirty, a tall, spare woman with blazing red hair and green eyes. Cheerful in her interview with Sofia, she was kind and encouraging to Emil in lessons. As Sofia closed the door behind the departing woman, she found Emil watching from the hallway behind her.

“Better, sweetie?” she asked with a smile.

“Better. I, I could stand her.”

“Good. Let's go have some cake.”

* * *

The third prospective tutor was Mr. Danielsson, a middle-aged man of average height but powerfully built, who in their interview several times brought up the need for Emil to exercise more. “The child is lazy. I can see that just looking at him. His body needs training as much as his mind.”

Sofia could not disagree with that; Emil _was_ lazy. The lesson which she supervised went well, and as she said her goodbyes to the man, she thought him a good candidate. Emil, however, had once more fled to the garden as the man left.

“He's a bully, just like the village boys. He threatened me. He said he'd whip me into shape.”

“Sweetie, I'm sure he didn't mean that he'd literally whip you.”

“No? He was different when you weren't there. The way he looked at me … He's a bully!”

Sofia thought of Emil, as she did of all her charges, as part of her family, whatever they themselves might think. She had no intention of handing her gentle little boy over to a tutor that he feared. “All right, sweetie. We won't pick him either. You do like Ms. Berglund, though.”

“Yeah, she's all right. Better than _him.”_

* * *

The last prospective tutor was Mr. Holm, a short, rather pudgy man in his late thirties, blond but prematurely balding. Enthusiastic about the prospect of leaving Mora, he talked knowledgeably about the geology of the mountains, the plant life, even the weather. He disclosed that he was immune, which Sofia believed would make it easier for Emil to explore a little with him.

The lesson which Sofia watched went well; the man required Emil's attention and effort but was not threatening about mistakes. On the other hand, Mr. Danielsson's lesson had gone similarly, and Sofia could only hope that the unsupervised lesson would not go so badly as the previous day's.

When lunch was ready and Sofia returned to the library to thank Mr. Holm and send him on his way, she found both tutor and child missing. Appalled, she thought for a moment that her charge had been kidnapped … but surely in that case she would have heard the heavy front door open. A hasty search of the house revealed neither truant, but when she thought to look in the garden, she found Mr. Holm teaching Emil to make fire using a firebow, having already showed him the use of flint and steel.

Seeing the two heads together, intent on the work, Sofia knew she had found Emil's tutor.

* * *

The three returned to Mörsil together, Sofia, Emil, and Mr. Holm (“call me Alarik”), along with their four immune guards. Emil again rode on the box with Martin, while Sofia filled Alarik in on the household and the village, and what she thought he should know of Helga. It was then necessary to speak of Mr. Västerström.

“As I told you in the interview, the child is motherless; his mother died when he was a toddler. His father is …” She hesitated, not wanting to criticize her employer unfairly or to turn the new tutor against him. “Well, he is very involved with his work, and he is quite old. Old enough to be Emil's grandfather rather than his father, and he has perhaps forgotten what it's like to be a little boy.”

“I should be a father figure as well as a tutor,” Alarik summarized with a smile.

“Yes, I believe that's necessary. I was reluctant to mention this to a prospect who might not take the job, or even be offered the job. Will this be a problem?”

“No, no. I rather suspected this, given that Emil's father stayed behind, sending his nanny to choose a tutor. No criticism of you, but in general I would expect the child's only surviving parent to take more interest in his education. Also, I suppose it will not surprise you to learn that the sort of people who hire a tutor in Mora are often the sort who do not wish to be bothered with their children. I've been a father figure before. And Emil is a good child.”

Sofia sat back, relieved that she was putting her little boy in good hands.

* * *

As Sofia had expected, once the tutor arrived the nanny was no longer needed. She would have stayed as housekeeper, and even suggested it, but Mr. Västerström dismissed the suggestion at once. “Viveka can take care of the cooking and managing the house, and Alarik can deal with the boy.” After a moment he seemed to recall normal courtesies and added, “You have done well and I will give you an excellent recommendation. I will also give, shall we say, two weeks for you to arrange matters properly for your departure, and of course I will provide for your escort back to Mora.” He nodded curtly, the conversation clearly at an end.

Two weeks seemed both too short and too long. There was plenty of time to show Viveka her accounting of the household finances and to hand over the “specials” fund, plenty of time to bring Alarik up to date on Emil's education, and yet not enough time to say goodbye to the place where she had lived for five years, and the people among whom she had lived, especially to Emil himself. The boy was unhappy as well; though he believed himself too old for a nanny, her departure was a major upheaval in his life.

The day before Sofia was due to leave, she took some money from the specials fund and hired an immune escort to take her and Emil up to the cabin one last time. There, she pointed out the beauty of the mountains, the streams, the wind in the trees, the birds, the view from the rocks, those things which his mother had loved about the cabin. They even walked through the graveyard so that the boy could clear leaves and debris from her grave once more.

Sofia's attention was drawn from him to Mia's grave. Something about it troubled her. _She died in the year 65, at age seventy-three. Not a bad age, these days. But … there's something wrong there … “He paid my tutor to stay here with me for a year, just until I turned fourteen.”_

Sofia blinked, looked at the gravestone again. _Torbjörn was thirteen when his mother died? But she was seventy-three. And that means she was sixty when he was born. And that is **impossible.**_ It had been obvious to her that Anna Nilsson couldn't be the mother of two-year-old Alma since Anna was in her late fifties. Female fertility drops off so fast after forty that giving birth at age fifty was unimaginably rare, and giving birth at age sixty was impossible.

_Torbjörn isn't Mia's son. But then, who is he? A by-blow of her husband, Fredrik? Surely not. She didn't take his name herself; why would she give hers to his illegitimate child? Why make such a child one of her heirs? A by-blow of **Torolf?** He doesn't seem the type._

Her eye travelled from Mia's grave to Johanna's. Johanna and her four children: Torsten, Tora, Torleif, and Torvald.

_Wait — “the whole family dead, her and all five children” — Elin said there were five children. And Kattarina said she delivered the youngest, Torkel. Where is Torkel?_

Then, of course, it all came together.

_Torbjörn was thirteen in the year 65, meaning he was born in 52, fitting in neatly as the last child of Johanna. That's who he is. Torkel survived the fire, but Torolf couldn't stand to look at the last remaining child of his beloved wife Johanna, just as he can't stand to look at the sole child of his beloved wife Helga._

_At that time his parents were still living, so they took in the child but, not wanting the villagers to gossip about Torolf's treatment of Torkel, they moved to Mora where no one knew them, and called him Torbjörn while Torolf either put about that all five children had died, or else failed to correct the mistaken impression that they had. If Mia was a young-looking sixty-five, she could have claimed to be fifty with four-year-old Torbjörn as a very late child._

_Torbjörn is not Emil's uncle at all; he's Emil's half-brother, rejected by their father just as Emil is._

Sofia turned to look at her charge, still carefully cleaning the grave.

_Should I tell him? Should I tell Torbjörn? His questions imply that he doesn't know himself. He might figure it out if he ever looked at these gravestones, but he said he hadn't been to Mörsil since she died. Perhaps that's intentional on Torolf's part, to ensure that he **doesn't** figure it out. **Should** they know this, either of them?_

As Emil stood and preceded her around the cabin towards their escort, she reached her decision. _Wait. When he's older, maybe even when his father is dead, then would be the time to tell him._

Emil stopped and looked up into the mountains. “One day,” he said, and his nanny didn't know if he spoke to her, to his lost mother, to his cold-hearted father, or to all the world, “one day, I'll do something great. One day I'll do something to make you proud.”

And one day, far away from the mountains of Sweden, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is true that in the pre-Rash world, with all our technology, women can give birth in their fifties and even sixties. However, this is extraordinarily rare even today and normally requires donor eggs and IVF. In a population of over seven billion, even with all our technology, there has apparently been _one_ woman of fifty-nine who conceived naturally, and she was on HRT. In a population of a mere quarter million, with nearly all efforts directed to simple survival in an extremely hostile world, this can reasonably be regarded as impossible.


End file.
